David's Dance
by Miyamashi
Summary: Mello, for reasons that Matt, for the life of him, couldn't figure out, was twirling around the apartment with the lights off, in a kind of daze... Mello/Matt


**David's Dance**

**By Miyamashi**

**Miya's Note: This was written for a contest on DeviantART that was being held by a fellow MM writer who goes by HippieNote. The theme of the contest was "dance", and I decided to challenge myself with something a little different. This little one-shot has no relation to any of my other MelloMatt fics, and, in fact, completely contradicts some of the circumstances I set up in TR. I just had an idea based on the theme, and I went with it. There are some things I'm happy with, and some that I'm not, but I, overall, like the result.**

**Oh, and before anybody asks, YES, I'm still writing TR. It's just taking forever. Sorry, guys. (If you'd like a teaser to Part 9, and you haven't gotten the message yet, feel free to head over to my LJ account. I'm Miyamashi there, too. :D )**

**Disclaimer: They're not mine. Can't get more simple than that.**

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It was one of those dreaded movie-like days when the world seemed to be trying, in any way possible, to say that something was desperately wrong. The people on the streets and in stores all seemed to be angry or depressed. The sounds of honking horns, screeching tires, and sirens echoed almost constantly through the air. Even the environment itself, its sky cloudy and grey and everything damp with persistent fog, seemed to be sending a message.

Matt, who was at that moment caught in a traffic jam on his way back to his and Mello's temporary apartment in Japan from installing bugs in that cute but ditzy pop star Misa-Misa's hotel room, sucked down the smoke from his fourth cigarette nervously. Days like this always spelled trouble. The last time things had been this bad, the sirens had been going to the burnt-out shell of a Mafia hideout, while Matt himself raced as far away from the scene as possible, a horribly injured Mello in tow.

Matt may not have been a huge believer in much of anything, but what he did believe, in some kind of strange way, was that the world's state was directly proportionate to his best friend's.

The redhead finally got to moving again, as the traffic shifted, but had to slam on his brakes, honking angrily, as a car came out of seemingly nowhere and cut him off.

Matt hoped that Mello was still at the apartment. When he'd left him, the blond had been sitting on the couch, staring intently at a laptop's screen that was attached to surveillance cameras outside of Hal Lidner's own short-term home, so that he could pick a good time to meet with her and trade information. He doubted Mello would still be in the same spot, but hoped that he hadn't gotten himself into any kind of trouble, and that the world was just turning so sour because of Kira.

However, after moving at under 5 miles per hour for too long, and then finally being able to turn onto a side street and speed as fast as possible to the apartment (trusting that the sirens he was hearing were all of the cops busy dealing with problems elsewhere), he realized that the world had, indeed, been telling him that something was wrong with the blond he called his partner and friend.

When Matt got home, the first thing that came to his mind was that Mello looked deranged.

The second thing that came to Matt's mind after he'd arrived was that Mello_ always_ looked deranged, but that this was especially odd.

The redhead walked, cautiously, around their living room, avoiding debris and wires on the floor, as well as Mello's swinging arms. The slightly older man took no notice of him, too absorbed in whatever he was doing.

Mello, for reasons that Matt, for the life of him, couldn't figure out, was twirling around the apartment with the lights off, in a kind of daze, his face upturned to the ceiling with his eyes closed and his mouth formed into a kind of strange semblance of a smile, his Beretta in one hand and his chocolate in the other, murmuring unintelligible phrases to himself in what seemed to be a kind of mantra. Matt wondered how Mello was managing to avoid tripping over the things on the floor.

Lists of possibilities ran through Matt's mind in watching the other man.

Was he on something? No, Mello wasn't the type for that, was he? "It'll weaken me…give Near the edge," he'd say.

Had he finally snapped? There was a slightly higher probability of that than of drugs, but Matt didn't want to think about the possibility, what with the gun in the blond's hand and himself being the only possible living target in the general vicinity.

He couldn't think of anything better, though, but at the same time, didn't have the heart to stop the man and ask. There was something beautiful about the display--crazy as it was--in the way Mello moved so gracefully around the room, following a kind of rhythm of his own without any music, save for the beat that Matt was almost certain was in the other man's head. He was moving fast enough that his hair was following him around, though a little delayed in the breeze of the air conditioning that was turned up a little too high for comfort. Matt thought for a fleeting moment that both of the women they were spying on had similar hair to his friend's, and wasn't sure what to think of the revelation.

He tried to read Mello's lips in the dim light of the various electronics scattered around the room to see what he was saying, but could only catch little glimpses while the blond was facing him, and it took him almost ten minutes of lip-reading and listening--it was easier to hear him when he concentrated, he realized--to piece together that the mantra was a rather long excerpt from the Bible, which Mello had memorized and was saying over and over again, his eyes scrunching together more and more each time.

_"But now you have spurned and rejected him;_

_you are full of wrath against your anointed._

_You have renounced the covenant with your servant;_

_you have defiled his crown in the dust._

_You have broken through all his walls;_

_you have laid his stronghold in ruins._

_All who pass by plunder him;_

_he has become the scorn of his neighbors._

_You have exalted the right hand of his foes;_

_you have made all his enemies rejoice._

_Moreover, you have turned back the edge of his sword,_

_and you have not supported him in battle._

_You have removed the scepter from his hand,_

_and hurled his throne to the ground._

_You have cut short the days of his youth;_

_you have covered him with shame._

_**Selah.**__"_

Matt felt dizzy, himself, from watching it. Mello, still smiling sadly, kept dancing his strange dance, and Matt wondered how he could even remain standing, when he was becoming nauseous just seeing it.

But, he realized, maybe it wasn't just the spinning that was doing it, but the realization of the significance of the passage Mello had chosen to recite. The blond had always been a man of faith, even under all of his harsh masks and sinful deeds, and always had he acted with God in mind. Though the redhead couldn't exactly sympathize--never having really been a believer…never having really cared if there was a God watching over him, and feeling that he had enough to worry about without one--he knew how much God meant to his friend, and to be chanting so passionately of being forsaken…

_'Oh, God,'_ he couldn't help thinking; a phrase of habit, not belief.

Watching Mello spin, around and around and around, Matt had the sudden urge to do something…anything in attempt to ease the blond's pain. At the same time, however, he wasn't sure what he could do, or if anything would help at all. Even worse, he noticed that Mello wasn't just holding the Beretta limply in his hand, but had his finger on the trigger, and though the redhead had never seen the other man fire it, he wasn't sure if this situation would be different.

Even worse was the realization that Matt wasn't sure whether he was more afraid of Mello shooting him, or himself.

Knowing that Mello hadn't reacted to his presence coming in, Matt doubted he would at all, if he didn't do anything to directly disturb him. He got up and began to look around for something that he could use to help, but even as he searched around the apartment, his eyes couldn't stay on anything for long enough to consider its usefulness, as they kept wandering back to the blond.

Mello had been going for at least twenty minutes by this time, and Matt really did wonder how he could keep it up for that long. It must have been some kind of trance, he reasoned, where he didn't feel himself growing as dizzy as he must have been…either that, or he must have been trying to make himself sick on purpose as some kind of strange repentance.

Spent and tired with the display, Matt sat back down, defeated, making sure to sit where the small, lone real window in their living room framed Mello's spinning silhouette. From there, he could see the darkness of the clouded sky behind the man, and couldn't help but feel that he was trapped in a kind of almost morbid moving painting.

Matt didn't know exactly why he did it, but he suddenly felt the tune come to his mind, and then his lips, and suddenly he was humming Ave Maria, the only religious song he remembered from back when Mello used to drag him into the chapel outside the Wammy's House on the rare Sundays when Matt would allow it.

The reaction was almost instantaneous.

It was as if the lifelike painting had begun to melt, the way it had started to rain streaks down the window; the way Mello slowed down suddenly so that his arms fell limply to his sides and his hair settled down around his head. Mello's fingers slipped open next, and the gun and chocolate fell to the ground.

Then, Mello fell, too, and chunks of paint rained from his mouth and streams of it ran from his eyes, and he was crying and puking at the same time.

Matt reacted before he realized he had even moved, and he was kneeling next to the blond, holding back his hair that had once been as neat and as immaculate as either Misa-Misa's or Hal Lidner's, but which had gone messy and straw-like from the fires that had done a much worse number on his skin.

Mello looked a mess, surely--a man taken down by his own failures--and Matt couldn't help but to feel pity that he knew the blond would resent if he knew. Mello was not a man to be pitied. Mello was a man to be feared and respected, but as he knelt there, making a puddle of vomit and tears on the floor, he looked so broken and afraid and utterly pathetic that the redhead wanted to look away to avoid having to see it.

Matt didn't _want _too feel sorry for Mello, just as he knew Mello didn't want his sympathy.

It wasn't right.

After what seemed to be an eternity of agonized sounds and full-bodied convulsions, the blond finally stopped, and grabbed Matt's hand off of the back of his neck harshly before sitting up on his haunches and staring listlessly at the disgusting puddle he had made on the floor.

Matt moved to speak, but Mello only shook his head to stop him. Instead, the redhead stood and went to get some things to clean up, and the other man watched him go silently, his eyes tired and red and his lips slightly pursed and still wet.

When Matt came back into the room, Mello took the cleaning supplies from his hands, and began to clean up the mess himself, his face downcast, his hair shielding all but his mouth from Matt's view.

When Mello finally spoke, his voice was quiet and cracked.

"Matt…could you…could you sing again?"

"I don't know the words, and I don't even really know if I got the tune right…"

"That's fine. Just…please, Matt."

The sheer desperation in his voice was frightening.

Matt sang. It wasn't anything spectacular, he thought. His voice was not a singer's voice. He cracked on the high notes and croaked on the low notes, and still felt uncomfortable and self-conscious in-between, but he kept singing.

Mello finished cleaning right about where Matt couldn't remember the rest and had to stop.

The blond stood, and Matt, who had knelt on the ground beside him, followed. The blond put away the cleaning supplies, and said, simply, "I'm fine," before the redhead ever had the chance to ask. "I'll be alright," he muttered.

"Yeah," was all Matt said back.

The situation was uncomfortable at best, and downright depressing at worst, and Matt wanted, more than anything, for Mello to be back to his normal self. The blond took a sip of water from the glass on the counter, swishing it around for a minute before spitting it out, and then he was wiping his mouth with a paper towel, his eyes still puffy and sad.

"You want me to sing again? I mean, it's not great, but if it makes you feel better…"

"If you want to…you don't have to."

Matt decided to take a chance and wrap his arms around Mello's waist, though he wasn't sure how the other man would react; with compliance or with a snap of rage.

Almost to the redhead's disappointment, Mello simply let him do it, leaning back into the touch and letting him put his chin on his shoulder. This wasn't like Mello. Mello didn't take comfort. Mello was too strong for that…too independent, too stubborn.

"Do you want to know how it goes?" the blond asked.

"Hm?"

"Ave Maria."

"Oh. Yeah, if you want."

Mello leaned more against Matt's chest and began to rock side to side, his hands set lightly on the redhead's. His singing was far smoother and more melodic, the words flowing from his lips with ease. Matt, remembered, suddenly, why he could remember the song when he had forgotten the others. Mello, next to him in the pews when they had been young and more innocent--a Mello so much more untouched and beautiful and delicate than now--had used to sing it along with the choir, leaving Matt entranced.

When he had used to sing in Cathedral, much like he was at that very moment, he had been sad and wistful and gentle.

Matt hadn't understood it until now.

The younger man, his hand still covered by the older's, reached up and cupped the crucifix that laid on his friend's chest as they kept dancing in place to the song. They both closed their eyes, and Matt joined in when Mello started over, picking up on most of the words, and remembering the melody.

When Mello turned around in Matt's arms, burying his face in the redhead's neck and curling his hands into his chest, Matt held him tightly and protectively, and the blond felt small and frail in his arms, like a child. Mello dropped out of the song the third time through, and Matt, confident enough now, continued on. Mello started murmuring instead of singing: The same passage from before.

They both finished at about the same time, Mello ending the entire thing with a last "Selah". The two kept dancing, though, without music or words, and suddenly everything seemed more peaceful than it had been since Matt had come home…more peaceful than the world had seemed in years.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Mello said into Matt's neck.

"It's alright."

"…Thank you."

"You're being awfully polite. Keep doing that, and what's gonna happen to that reputation of yours?" the redhead said jokingly into the other man's hair.

"Well, you'll just have to keep that information to yourself, now won't you? I can't go having other people knowing about my little breakdown, or nobody's ever going to take me seriously again."

Matt smiled. "And what will you do to me if I tell?"

"Probably shoot you in the knees."

Matt smiled wider at that. "There you are. I though for a moment that I'd lost you."

Mello looked up. "Would it bother you if I did one more thing out of character?"

"Just don't make a habit of it, alright? You were starting to scare me."

Still rocking slowly, Mello pulled back a bit and looked into Matt's eyes. The redhead had no idea what was happening in the blond's mind, his own eyes soft and searching.

"God forgive me," was all that Mello said, and he touched his lips to Matt's fleetingly.

Their dance stopped, and so did Matt's breath in his throat. His eyes widened, and he stared at his childhood friend in awe and surprise.

Mello smirked at him.

"Now that…" Matt stammered. "That, you can do anytime."

"Your secret?"

"Yeah."

All of Mello seemed to come back at that moment; all of the confidence, and the power. Despite the failure that marked half of his face, despite the fact that his hair hung ragged and bristly around his head, Mello was as beautiful as he had been as a child, and Matt could feel his heart swell.

"Selah," was all Matt said or had to say, and the dance began again.

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**Miya's Note: Just to clarify some things: The passage that Mello recites is from Psalm 89, and I found it completely out of pure luck. :D "Selah" is used a lot like "Amen", and generally denotes a break in poetry or music. The title of the fic is a reference to the passage, as that psalm is about the rise and fall of David.**

**Oh, and it's kind of inconsequential, but the version of Ave Maria sung in the fic is the Slavic translation of the Orthodox prayer (also known as the "Hail Mary"). And, yes, Matt picked up on the words. He's a genius. He can do it. XD Beside, he'd been hearing it since childhood.**

**Hope you enjoyed!**


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